


Summerfling

by destinyofshipwreck



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: F/M, Labour Day weekend 2016, Sexting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 12:33:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14915456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destinyofshipwreck/pseuds/destinyofshipwreck
Summary: It's not her fault that she always thought about Scott when she was with him. Scott's body is the most familiar one, so comparison comes naturally, even though Ryan is a whole world of tactile contrast with Scott, and his body can't be mistaken for Scott's under her hands, his hands can't be mistaken for Scott's when he pulls her around by her hair or grips her waist or fucks her with his fingers, his mouth is not Scott's, his teeth aren't Scott's when he tears at her lips.Scott's here, though, and Ryan's not.





	Summerfling

Tessa stops for a little antiquing on the way to Killarney: perfectly Instagrammable, friendly and approachable but not too personal, and an easy way to kill a couple of hours, since Scott told her he got off to a late start and couldn't make it up to the cottage until the early evening.

She walks down to the beach alone as the sun sets, and he's there in the gravel driveway, unpacking groceries from the back of his truck, when she comes back.

"Glad you made it," she says.

"Have you eaten?" he asks, which is as good as a hello.

She'd invited him up for the long weekend, to get reacquainted with being close, before competition season and after an enthusiastic but somewhat tentative summer of training together, and she'd missed him.

"No," she says.

"I brought pie," he says. It's blackberry, and they eat the whole thing straight out of its tinfoil pan, standing over the kitchen counter next to the open sliding door to the deck, citronella candles lined up on the butcher block as a ward against mosquitoes. When she shivers a little from the chill of the draft, he takes off his sweatshirt and drapes it around her shoulders, as casual as you please.

One of the pillows in the bedroom is a bit mildewed, from being too near an open window during an August rainstorm, probably, and the spare ones in the linen closet smell musty with disuse, and there's not enough time to air them out. Tessa makes a mental note to find out which of her siblings had been up last and have words with them.

"There's a solution. Sleep on me," says Scott, sprawling backward on the bed and extending an arm to beckon her in. "Aren't we here to get used to this again?"

"I guess," says Tessa, but it  _does_  feel right and familiar to slide into place next to him, with her head on his shoulder and his arm around her, and she's asleep before she knows it.

The next morning is leisurely. Scott hadn't been up at the cottage for so long that he forgot how graciously it's appointed, and he brought an Aeropress and a little manual burr grinder with him from home, as if Kate wouldn't have plumbed in a Profitek dual boiler machine when she renoed the place. He brings her a not-quite-espresso in bed, stubbornly, a trace of not-quite-crema clinging to its surface, and she thinks of the veins in his hands and the muscles of his forearms working the crank mechanism, and it's the best thing she's ever tasted.

He brings a second one to her later, outside, stretching on the lawn behind the cottage, in a swimsuit and oversized chambray shirt.

"Hey," she says. "Can you take a photo of me? Right here." They're at the top of the stairs to the beach, a short walk down a forested cliff to the lake's edge.

"What for?" he asks.

"Social media. Just take it," she says, shrugging off the shirt, handing him her phone and her coffee to hold.

"Aha, one of those," he says, "Hang on," and fumbles with the camera app. She poses for him, shoulders back, looking toward the water. "Done," he says, handing it back.  


She can't tell if it was Scott's editorial discretion or if it really was her, but the body language in the photo is diffident: smiling but not looking at the camera; half facing away, sharply lit. More reserved than flirtatious. Her ass would look great in the hot pink one-piece, but it's mostly cast in shadow.

She frowns.

"If it's a thirst trap, not a sext," says Scott, "It doesn't have to be perfect. Suggestive is fine."

"You make it sound so mercenary," she says.

"Well, of course it's mercenary," he says. "Stop stressing and post it."

She does, captioning it with only a pair of emojis.

"Who's it for, anyway?" he asks.

"No one serious," she says. "Like a summer romance kind of thing. How long is too long before I text him?"

"He'll text you if he knows what's good for him," says Scott.

And so he does, a few minutes later, while they're back in the cottage organizing lunch to take out to one of the tiny undeveloped islands a little way from shore. Scott, who prefers activities that involve standing upright, has never been wild about kayaks, but it's not a weekend at the lake without, she had informed him, and he agreed to get over it, so long as it involved lunch and so long as lunch involved beer.

_who's up there with u taking pics like that_ , the message reads.

_Just some friends. ;)_ , she texts back.

The next message is a fairly obscene photo. She taps away from it hastily as Scott looks on with curiosity, and for good measure she turns the phone completely off and sets it facedown on the countertop.

"You're just gonna leave him on read," says Scott. "Brutal."

"He'll live. He's, uh, not loquacious, shall we say, it's not really a conversation."

"What did he text you?"

"Never mind."

"A real charmer," says Scott.

The air is thick with a cloud of blackflies at the shore that lifts as their kayaks clear the reeds. The cottage is set on the shore of the bay in a narrow and secluded inlet, its beach well protected from the lake's turbulence; the water's surface here is a glassy mirror reflecting sun and forest. Scott's attention is too focused on form and balance to afford any conversation, which suits her fine.

It takes about thirty clumsy and out-of-practice minutes to reach the nearest of the barrier islands, where Tessa had spent weeks in the summers of her childhood with her brothers, building ad hoc lean-to treehouses. It's smaller than she remembers.

Lunch is a spartan affair furnished by the refrigerator case at Lemieux's, where Scott had stocked up on the way north from the city: cold roast chicken, charcuterie, cheeses, stone fruits, and Tessa's contribution, four cans of Summerweiss at the bottom of the cooler.  


"It's not still Ryan, is it?" he asks her once they've eaten, and she nearly spits out her mouthful of beer in surprise. "No. Tessa, come on."

She grimaces but doesn't answer, because of course it's still Ryan, like an old routine or a bad habit.

"God. Is he serious about you?"

"I dunno, he hasn't said, we haven't talked about it."

"That's because he's an idiot, he doesn't know how to string five words together. How long, that's like, two years it's been?"

He's evidently been keeping better track of her than she has, because she can't recall.

"He's away a lot, I think he has a girlfriend in Australia too, so it's not exclusive or anything, if that's what you're asking.”

It's Scott's turn to grimace, and she's a little embarrassed to hear herself say it out loud, because it sounds so pathetic in the clear light of the afternoon and the quiet of the woods.

"You're being safe?" he asks, with apparently sincere concern.

"Jesus," she says. "Yes, Scott, Depo and condoms and tests every month, I'm not a fool."

"How's your bone density?"

"It's being monitored? Look, will you let me deal with my own side effects? I'll stop if it's a problem. Just shut up and drink."

He cracks open a second can and salutes her with it, but lets her have quiet again, and she drifts off in the grass after a beer and a half, and they're both a bit sunburned when she wakes up to a stiff breeze, and they head back to the reeds and the blackflies and the beach by the cottage, without any further discussion.

She reads on the deck with her feet propped up on the table as dusk encroaches, in the light from the kitchen window, while Scott lights a fire to grill dinner in the pit: a couple of thick tenderloin steaks, huge mushrooms, cobs of corn that a roadside vendor had alleged were from Taber, which she doubts; for dessert, halved peaches and giant strawberries, charred black at the edges, perfumed with applewood smoke.

The breeze is still cool through the bedroom window, though the night is clear, so she leaves it open. The spare pillows from the linen closet are thoroughly aired out after a day in the sun on the porch, but when she goes out to retrieve them after dark, she returns them to storage without mentioning them, and Scott doesn't mention it either when she tucks herself against his side again, and buries her face in his neck.

She wakes with the cawing of crows at dawn, still nestled under his arm, one of his hands resting lightly in her hair, and her phone buzzing insistently on the nightstand.

She checks it to see if there's been some emergency or something, but there hasn't been; it's just a series of escalatingly graphic messages from Ryan, who misses her, and who has certain ideas about what he'd like to do with her when he's back in Toronto next month, beginning with her mouth around his cock, a photo of which he has helpfully texted her, to refresh her memory.

He does have a beautiful body, even softened a bit from the Olympic shape that got her hooked on him. Taller than Scott, lankier than Scott, more scarred from surgical repairs to injuries than Scott, heavily tattooed, a lump on his collarbone from a break a few years ago, hair in dark whorls on his chest, thick fingers less scarred than Scott's but more calloused.

It's not her fault that she always thought about Scott when she was with him. Scott's body is the most familiar one, so comparison comes naturally, even though Ryan is a whole world of tactile contrast with Scott, and his body can't be mistaken for Scott's under her hands, his hands can't be mistaken for Scott's when he pulls her around by her hair or grips her waist or fucks her with his fingers, his mouth is not Scott's, his teeth aren't Scott's when he tears at her lips.

Scott's here, though, and Ryan's not.

It's the easiest thing in the world to rouse him with kisses along his neck, and to slide her hand down the front of his sweatpants once he's drowsy but awake, and to swing a leg over him and settle down on top of him and grind against him with slow rolling hips, his hands on her breasts through the Habs T-shirt she bought in the spring to ease into the idea of moving to Montreal.

"I didn't know it was gonna be this kind of weekend," he says, pulling her close to his chest.

"Me either," she says. "Do you mind?"

"Never," he says. "But I don't think Kate keeps condoms here, does she?"

"Oh God," she says, laughing. "No, I don't think so, please don't make me think about it. When was your last physical?"

"Three weeks ago, and I haven't been anywhere strange since then," he says, his hands more urgent under her shirt, yanking it off of her.

"Then I don't care," she says, reaching down to tug his sweats down his hips, and he reaches between them to pull her underwear to one side, and makes as if to slide his fingers into her, but she sinks onto his cock before he can.

"Slowly," he whispers, and grabs her hips and holds her fast with just his tip inside her, but she's impatient, bearing down against his grip, and she's stronger than his hands, and he knows it, and she shoves herself onto him with more force than she needs to, and it hurts, but he moans low in his throat and moves his hands to her shoulders and shoves back, and it's worth it.

He's so familiar inside her, the rhythm he sets with his hips so rote to her, that it may as well have been a week ago that she fucked him last, and not over a year. His breathing gets ragged and the curses he's whispering to her get hoarser when he's close, and she slides off him and takes him in her mouth, and he comes with a sharp intake of breath and a tightening of his hands in her hair, pressing himself deep into her throat.

"Sorry," he gasps, when she withdraws from him, coughing.

"Don't," she says. "Don't apologize for what I want to do to you, don't ever," and she crawls back up to his chest and he touches her hair again, gently this time, stroking her forehead with the backs of his fingers, her cheek, her chin.

Her phone buzzes again, a few more times, while she's catching her breath.

"I'm not gonna say a word," says Scott, rather diplomatically under the circumstances, he probably thinks, "Other than to ask if you're planning to do anything about that situation. It's first thing in the morning, what's his problem?"

"He's teaching at Perisher to the end of the season, it's nighttime there," she says, a little defensively, something about his tone rousing her sense of contrariness. "But yeah, I'm gonna do something about that situation, I'm not an ice queen."

She sits up and leans back against him, legs splayed, grabs the phone, and snaps a photo of her cunt, swollen and red, spreading her lips with her middle finger and thumb, her index finger slid halfway inside herself; then she half-turns away from Scott, her back to the curtain, and snaps a second photo from arm's length of her face and torso, bare breasts and all, with her fingers thrust lewdly into her own mouth.

"Holy shit," says Scott.

His thigh is in the frame of the first photo and she crops it out before sending it, then the second. Scott's mouth is hanging open, like he just can't believe it of her.

"You never sent me anything like that even when we were, you know," he says. "Jesus Christ."

"You never asked," she says, which is true, and he has no rebuttal.

Renting stand-up paddleboards is Scott's idea for the afternoon, a compromise to avoid a second day in kayaks. He even volunteers to go get them, from the rental kiosk in the park east of the cottage, and he returns triumphant an hour later.

"Very picturesque," says Tessa, taking a photo of the pair of them next to the lounge chairs she'd dragged from the cottage to the beach for the afternoon.

He's more graceful and practiced at this than she is, although she'd tried it before, and she spends most of the next few hours toppling off her board and swimming after it, losing her grip on one paddle or the other and having to retrieve it, wishing she'd thought to tether them to her wrists somehow with lengths of bungee cord.

When she finally finds her balance she makes Scott swim back to shore and take a photo to commemorate the occasion, where she's silhouetted against the glow of the setting sun reflected off the bay; she loses it again immediately after, and floats on her back in the lake instead, cackling at her own hubris.

She's worn out and bruised and delirious with exertion when the wind picks up off the lake as night falls. Scott suggests it's time to pack it in for the day and retire to the cottage for dinner and a bath, so she'll ache less tomorrow.

The cottage is outfitted with a giant clawfoot tub, roomy enough for two. She makes tea while Scott fills it with all the hot water the old cast iron boiler has to offer, spiked with epsom salt and her perfume.

"Were you going to join me, or," she says, gesturing at it when she returns with the teapot and two mugs on one of the oak trays from the kitchen.

"If you'd like," he says, and steps in first, reaching back to help her in after him, and settling her into his lap. His eye for displacement is enviable, and the tub is not quite overfilled once she's sunk in to her shoulders, grateful for the heat and the steam.

He massages her neck and shoulders, then her biceps and forearms, and then he slides a hand down her abdomen, pausing over her cunt. She spreads her legs for him a little, almost by reflex, and his index and middle fingers come to rest on either side of her clit. He strokes her lightly, between his knuckles, and she shifts her hips up toward his hand for more pressure, but he moves with her, denying it.  


"Does he touch you like this," he whispers.

"What kind of question is that," she says, and she makes to move her own hand between her legs, if he's not going to give her what she wants. In a single and sudden smooth motion he's grabbed both her wrists with his free hand, and he pins them to her chest, trapping her under his touch.

"Well?"

He's rubbing her in slow circles now between his forefinger and thumb, extremely softly, and she can feel a muscle in her thigh twitch every time his fingertip hits a particular angle, and he can feel it too, because he slows down even more, making her wait.  


"What do you fucking think," she says, annoyed. "No, Scott, mostly I blow him and then he fucks me and then I finish myself off in the shower."

The muscle twitches with the regularity of a metronome and his cock is throbbing against the small of her back and she can see her own quickening heartbeat in the rise and fall of her chest, and she hates that she's a sucker for this, for being held in balance.

"Just wondering," he murmurs, and kisses her ear, and doesn't stop.

Her thoughts are so vague and unfocused that it's impossible to discern how much time has passed, but when Scott lets go of her wrists her whole body is shuddering uncontrollably and the water is lukewarm, the tea tray untouched on the vanity. He lifts her along with him as he stands and half-carries her to the wall by the window and kneels in front of her there, and she nearly loses her footing completely, scrabbling for purchase on the wet slate floor, when he closes first his lips and then his teeth around her aching clit, propping her up with his hands on her ribcage.

She comes in a flood in his mouth, and he drinks her, greedily, and finally reaches inside her to draw out more pleasure from her than she knew she could bear. When she sinks to the floor afterward, completely wrung out, he gets up only for long enough to pour her a cup of tea, barely warm and bitter from the long steep, but she drinks it anyway, it's bracing.

She's not sure if she could stand up or if she wants to, but he wraps her in a bath sheet and carries her to the bedroom, and she's too spent even to kiss him goodnight.

A storm blows in some hours later; they're awoken by cold rain lashing across their faces through the open window, which Scott leaps up to close with a thud, but there's no sleeping in after that.

He leaves her with coffee and granola to read in the living room while he returns the paddleboards. He's gone for a few hours, not back until the rain has tapered off in the early evening, but he returns bearing a bottle of rosé that he must have gone all the way to Sudbury to buy on a stat holiday and a box of takeout sandwiches from the Sportsman, so she cannot begrudge him his lateness.

"Bring your book, let's go eat," he says, and they head for the beach; it's dusk, but the rain's been over for long enough to dry out the surface of the sand, so it's not too soggy to lie back on, and they pass the sandwiches and the bottle back and forth between them in companionable silence as the sun sinks low over the lake. When she shivers in the sudden shadow he pulls off his sweatshirt and hands it to her, without asking.

He breaks the silence by bringing up Ryan, which she had dearly hoped he wouldn't.

"Before we go back to work, I do want to know your whole deal with him, if you don't mind telling me," he says. "What's even in it for you?"

She sighs; jealousy is her least favourite look on Scott, and his expression is marked with it, his brow furrowed, his shoulders tense.

"Big dick. Huge. Like, world-historical moment-defining enormous," she says, and makes a gesture to illustrate, her hands two feet apart.

For some reason it seems like he's not convinced.

"Nothing hangs on it, okay? It's—I don't have to give a shit about him because it doesn’t matter if we fight, or break up, or whatever. It’s not my whole life if we do.” She's raised her voice without realizing it, and her own echo returning from the cliff startles her, cutting her off.

Scott’s looking at her with some combination of hurt and understanding that makes her feel sick.  


"I just needed something not to matter," she finishes, quieter.

"That was a little oblique, and forgive me for drawing an inference," he says, "But can I take this to mean that I matter to you."

"Yes," she says, "Of course you do."  


"Thank you, that's all I needed," he says.

Reaching for her, he pulls from a pocket in the sweatshirt a cardboard packet of sparklers that he must also have bought while he was out, and the Zippo engraved with the Habs logo that she'd given to him months ago, when they decided to try coming back.

"What, are we celebrating something," she says.

"No," he says, leaning forward to kiss her, then lighting one and handing it to her, and lighting a second for himself.

"Take a picture anyway," she says, handing him her phone and taking the sparkler from his hand.

She's facing away again in the photo, but when she looks at it later her comportment doesn't strike her as guarded, but optimistic, forward-facing, her hands illuminated by sparkler light, oriented to the horizon.


End file.
